


Brought to Mind

by kaeorin



Series: Stark Tower: Avengers Drabbles [7]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst, New Year's Eve, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Other, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-01
Updated: 2019-01-01
Packaged: 2019-10-01 23:17:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17253233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaeorin/pseuds/kaeorin
Summary: Bucky makes sure you don’t ring in the new year sick and alone.





	Brought to Mind

**Author's Note:**

> Why.......can't......I.........write an actual dang drabble instead of going on for ten pages?!
> 
> Happy New Year!

_Is thy sweet Heart now grown so cold,_  
that loving Breast of thine;   
That thou canst never once reflect   
On old long syne. 

There wasn’t much use in feeling sorry for yourself, you mused to yourself for about the hundredth time that night as you resettled your blankets around you on the couch. You were a single adult living in a city far away from your childhood home, and you hadn’t been able to get a ticket home for the holidays. You had been more or less destined to spend New Year’s Eve alone even before this sickness set in. Anyway, you’d spent plenty of winter nights just like this: in a hoodie and sweatpants, wrapped in your comforter and curling your entire body around a blessedly-hot mug of tea. If you could do it two weeks ago and not get all sulky about it, surely you could do it tonight and also not get sulky about it. 

But being sick sucked. Your whole body was sore, and it felt like thick fog was rolling in and settling right in the middle of your forehead. Your shoulders were tense and your muscles ached. Some part of you wanted to go to sleep, if only to escape from the misery, but you somehow knew that, if you did, you’d only wake up more congested and miserable. It seemed a decent enough compromise, then, to try to doze on the couch and watch some mindless television. Just...it seemed like somehow Netflix had dropped all of its regular television shows in lieu of the types of Christmas movies that would only get released on an online streaming service. They weren’t even up to Hallmark Channel quality. _Christmas is over,_ you thought to yourself grumpily. Shouldn’t they have moved on by now?

You took a sip of tea and tried not to growl under your breath. Things could be worse. Things could _easily_ be worse. Tony was throwing some huge New Year’s bash at the Tower, populated with exactly the kind of people who were usually yakking it up at Tony’s parties even without the nation’s biggest excuse to get drunk. This...plague had been enough of an excuse for you to bow out. You wondered how he—and the rest of the team—were faring right now. New Year’s was a lot less family-focused than, say, Christmas was, but surely you weren’t the only one missing your family.

Finally, desperate just to have _something_ happening in the background, you switched over to a live-stream from Times Square and dropped the remote into your lap. It was insipid, and not nearly complex enough to truly give you the space to zone out for a while, but maybe you could just pretend.

Just as you were barely starting to slip into that dozy state of meditation where nothing else was happening in your head, you heard a gentle tapping at your door. You listened carefully, but didn’t move. Few of your neighbors bothered to interact with you, but maybe some well-meaning newcomer to the building was trying to build some sort of a community? You waited for what felt like forever, but there were no further knocks. Someone visiting from out of town who had simply knocked on the wrong door, then? Before you could catch yourself, you did conjure up the image of your parents, small and confused in the big new city, here for a surprise visit but uncertain which door was actually yours. But that was silly. Your mother was in no shape to fly, and your father had declared long ago that he was done with airports.

Just as you were beginning to drift off again, the knocking sounded once more and someone called your name softly. Irritation surged through you. _Go away,_ you urged whoever was out there. _Just let me die in peace in here._

Even so, you struggled to your feet. It would be rude not to at least thank them for dropping by, whoever they were. You’d open the door, wish them a happy new year, and send them on their way. You shivered as the chill from the floor seeped into the soles of your bare feet. You’d never bothered to dig through your perpetually-unpacked boxes for your slippers. Now you were regretting that a little.

When you finally reached the door and pulled it open (chain still engaged, of course), you found yourself peering into a familiar set of blue eyes. He seemed...almost sheepish, somehow, and ducked his head when he realized you were looking at him. You closed the door just enough to unlatch the chain, and then swung it open again. The surprise of seeing Bucky Barnes standing at your door seemed to have caused your brain to short out. 

“What are you doing here?” You somehow found it in yourself to be just a little embarrassed at how sharp your tone was. He didn’t seem overly concerned, thankfully.

“You weren’t at the party. Tony said you were sick.” He shrugged, which finally drew your attention down his body, to the heavily-laden plastic bags he was holding. “I don’t like the crowds, so they sent me to look in on you. Can I come in for a bit?”

You wanted to say no. You _really_ wanted to say no. Your nest on the couch was calling your name, and it would definitely be weird to wrap yourself up in a blanket burrito in the presence of someone like Bucky.

But, really, what choice did you have? You stepped aside to let him in. You did not miss the quick way his eyes scanned over your mess in the living room, taking in your blanket and the endless piles of used tissues and the stack of books and magazines that you’d tried to distract yourself with. You told yourself that the sudden heat in your cheeks was due to fever, instead of caring what he thought about your living conditions, but still you moved as quickly as you could to try to take care of some of the mess.

“I didn’t think I’d be entertaining anyone,” you offered as a halfhearted explanation as you wadded up your countless gross tissues. “And I don’t spend a lot of time here most of the time. And I didn’t really feel—”

“It’s fine.” He did at least have the good sense to sound embarrassed, as though he’d just realized that maybe stopping by unannounced wasn’t the best plan. “Please don’t worry about it. Just...where should I put these things?”

“Um. In the kitchen?” Quickly, you ran down your mental list of overdue kitchen chores, but he’d already stepped through the doorway. By the time you followed behind him, he had placed his bags on the kitchen table and was unpacking them.

“I don’t know if you eat this kind of thing, but Nat said a Thai place would have good food for someone who’s sick,” he explained as he pulled container after container out of one of the bags. “I asked the woman at the counter for...just whatever she eats when she’s sick.” He shrugged again, but didn’t raise his eyes to meet yours. “There’s some kind of soup here...”

“I’m sorry. Why are you here?” This time, you were careful to soften your voice. “Thank you for—for all that, but...I don’t...how are you here? How do you know where I live?” Tony had once offered you a suite of rooms in the Tower, but you’d turned him down, always preferring to keep a little hidey-hole for yourself.

“It’s in your file. Tony told Steve that you weren’t at the party because you were sick, and then Steve got Clint to steal the file.” A secret smile curled the corners of his lips. “You, uh...really helped kill some of the monotony for a while there, so we all owe you one. And then they all designated me the delivery boy because I was going a little stir-crazy.”

“Happy to help.” It was always jarring to be reminded that people thought—and talked—about you when you weren’t right in front of them, but...you tucked the thought aside for now. There were bigger things to deal with. Like Bucky. Standing in your kitchen.

Once all the containers were unpacked, Bucky set about opening them. There was probably no escape from this, you told yourself, and went to get a couple of plates from your cupboard. He was here, and he’d done something very sweet, so the least you could do was try to be a good hostess. When you went back to hand him his plate, he seemed distracted by a small container with a skull drawn on the lid.

“Are you planning to poison me to death?” you asked, nodding towards the container. He opened it and sniffed it cautiously.

“The woman, she said that what she eats when she’s _really_ sick, most people in this country can’t handle. I guess it’s really spicy? But she said that I had a look about me that made her think I could handle it.” He held it out to you, and you swapped it for his plate. 

“She was flirting with you, Barnes.” You tried not to picture the scene, and instead looked at the food. It looked like some kind of simple vegetable dish with noodles, maybe? You held it up to your nose, and, though your congestion prevented you from smelling much, you did feel the slightest hint of a burn. Just from the smell? That was promising. You scooped some of it onto your fork and, without a second thought, popped it into your mouth. At first, it was nothing special. The sauce was kind of sweet, kind of tangy—certainly nothing that should have warranted a skull and crossbones, no matter how sensitive Americans’ palates were supposed to be. Still chewing, you put the food down on the table and shook your head. But that’s when it happened.

A burning grew in your mouth, sparking along the edges of your tongue before taking hold...everywhere. Now, granted, it wasn’t nearly as bad as the time that you and your brothers had stupidly done the Carolina Reaper challenge, but it was definitely the spiciest thing you’d tasted in a while. You were torn between continuing to chew so you wouldn’t have to feel it burn its way down into your stomach or swallowing it just so it couldn’t burn your mouth anymore. Finally, you just swallowed, and over the faint ringing in your ears, you could hear Bucky laughing at you. 

“You try it then,” you finally managed, and pushed the container towards him. He shook his head, still laughing, and set about loading up his plate with the rest of the food. 

“That’s alright, kid. Not really how I get my kicks.”

Still, there was something to be said for the weird tangy spicy salad. It got a little bit easier to breathe as you served yourself bits of food from the other boxes, and, more importantly, that fog in your head began to fade. It was almost...worth it? You and Bucky sat together at your tiny kitchen table, sometimes making conversation, sometimes just eating in silence, but slowly your attention started to shift back to that little dish.

Bucky noticed, of course. “I never would’ve pegged you for a masochist,” he said in a low voice. You shrugged it off and scooped a little more of the salad-stuff onto your plate.

“I’m not,” you answered. “The burning part sucks. Obviously. But then it makes you feel better. I feel slightly human for the first time in days.” You chewed in (slightly-tortured) silence for a few more moments. You didn’t typically spend a lot of time alone with Bucky Barnes. You were friendly enough, sure, but the vast majority of your interactions had always taken place with other teammates nearby to serve as buffers. On his own, he was usually so quiet, so sullen, that you always felt like you were forcing your presence on him. 

But now here he was. In your tiny, cluttered apartment. With Thai food. You liked a companionable silence more than most people did, but it was still...odd. You studied the table in front of you. Something was missing. Drinks. You hadn’t offered him anything to drink. 

“I’m sorry!” You said suddenly, your voice a little too loud, a little too unsteady. “Are you thirsty?” You all but leapt from your chair—and then had to grip the edge of the table when your vision started to dim. Faintly, you heard him swear and shove his chair backwards. Steadying hands rested against your waist. He was standing so close.

“You alright?” His voice was soft, almost uncertain. “What happened?”

You made an attempt at a self-deprecating laugh, though you were feeling at least as off-balance as he sounded. “I just stood up too fast. Got light-headed for a minute. Sorry.” You drew in a breath, trying to shake off your embarrassment. It didn’t really work. “So...I’ve got soda, I think? And milk, and juice. Tea, if you’re interested. There might be some alcohol on top of the fridge, but...no promises.” Belatedly, you remembered that alcohol didn’t really do anything for Steve or for Bucky. Oops.

“Just sit down, alright?” He nudged you back towards your seat, and you let him. “I didn’t come here to make you take care of me.” When he was apparently satisfied that you were going to remain seated, and not fling yourself into unconsciousness, he stepped over to your fridge. “You want soda? Or milk for that spicy shit?”

“Um, actually… Could you put the kettle on? For tea?” It felt strange, asking him to do that for you, but you weren’t anxious to tempt fate—or Bucky’s ire—by trying to get up to do it yourself right now. 

If he was surprised by your acquiescence, he gave no signs of it, and did as you asked. You’d never gotten around to getting a decent electric kettle, and had instead contented yourself with your beat-up old stovetop one. While it began heating up, Bucky opened your fridge and stared at the contents for a few moments, before finally retrieving one of the few cans of soda that you kept on the bottom shelf. He turned and held it up, raising his eyebrows as if asking permission, and you nodded. 

You expected him to rejoin you at the table, at least until the kettle started to whistle, but instead he started looking through your cupboards. It didn’t take long for him to find your mug cabinet. Your favorite mug was sitting on the coffee table in the living room, but he somehow managed to grab your second-favorite and set it on the counter. 

“Tea’s next to the—” But maybe you shouldn’t even have bothered. The next cupboard he opened was, in fact, your tea cupboard. For the briefest of moments, you wondered if he’d been in your apartment before without your knowledge. As if reading your mind, he cast a sheepish look over his shoulder.

“Lucky guess,” he explained. “It’s where I’d keep it.” But then he returned his attention to the cupboard. You didn’t have a huge selection or anything, but you did keep at least a couple varieties of black and herbal teas on hand. “So. What’s your poison?”

You rested your chin in your hand as you studied the few boxes you could see from here. You didn’t want to turn this into too big a production, but of course if you protested too heavily, that’s exactly what you’d be doing. “I think chamomile?” It didn’t really go with the food on the table, but...it’d be something warm and soothing, and that’s really all that mattered. 

It was hard to look away as Bucky pulled down the box and took out a little packet of tea. His hands were large, and they were rough. You’d seen them all but tear people apart while you were on missions, had seen them covered in blood and gore, and yet they were also perfectly capable of delicately dropping a little bag of chamomile tea into the mug with a watercolor chipmunk on it. The incongruity...did something do you.

He was looking at you. There was a question on his face which implied that he had also asked you a question aloud. Oops. It was your turn to give him a sheepish look. He almost seemed to smile. “I said, do you take anything in it, or do you drink it neat?”

“Could you just hand me that jar of honey?” It was on the shelf right beneath your boxes of tea, but you pointed anyway. There was really no reason to make him add the honey for you, was there?

Maybe you should have known better. Instead of handing it to you, he took off the lid and set it on the counter while he retrieved a spoon. He held it up as though for your approval, and you just sank back into your chair with a sigh. 

“Yes, please, one of those worth of honey. You’re a stubborn fuck, aren’t you?”

“It’s one of my more charming personality traits.” He flashed you a grin as he leaned against your counter, and for a moment it was easy to see the man he once had been. His hair was hanging in his face, and his stubble was dark against his skin, but you couldn’t help but see the resemblance he still held to the dashing young man in the soldier’s uniform that you’d seen in pictures and old film. You let your gaze drift down along his body, unintentionally taking in the long lines that made up his form before ultimately settling near the floor. That same comfortable silence stretched between you, interrupted only by the rumbling and bubbling of the water in the kettle. After a while, you heard him draw in a breath as though to say something else, but the crescendo of the boiling kettle interrupted him.

He filled the mug and placed it on the table before finally sitting back down again. You wrapped your hands around it right away, and tried not to sigh at the warm that seeped into your skin. You were already missing that blanket nest. The two of you continued to eat together, speaking really only when you had something to say. When you were finished, Bucky slowly began closing up all the various takeout containers once more. 

“You should go in there and get some rest,” he said, gesturing towards the living room with his chin. “I can take care of all this.”

But you were basically done following his orders. You eased yourself to your feet (no dizziness this time, thankfully) and carried the dirty dishes over to the sink. Behind you, you heard him sigh as he stacked up the containers. All he did, though, was carry them over to the fridge to put them away. Meanwhile, you set about washing the dishes. When he was done, he leaned against the counter again and crossed his arms. You could feel his eyes on your face, but didn’t look at him.

“Guess I’m not the only stubborn fuck here, huh?” 

You felt the corner of your mouth turn up even as you rinsed the soap off of one of the plates. “Guess not. You wanna dry these?”

“What would you do if I said no?” There was a challenge in his voice, but only just. Of course he was only kidding. Still, you played along, and shook off some of the excess water.

“Well, I guess I’d just go ahead and dry them myself,” you said innocently, leaning over slightly to reach for the dish towel that hung off of the handle of your oven. Bucky moved faster, and beat you to it despite the fact that you were closer to it than he was. He held it behind his back and lifted his chin, daring you to try to take it from him.

“Of course I’m gonna dry ‘em. You crazy?” He extended one hand for the plate, but didn’t grab it away from you. “Give it here.”

But you couldn’t make it that easy for him. You turned to look at him, tilting your head innocently. “Are you sure? You did bring me dinner. It’s only fair that I take care of the mess.” 

“Come on.” He lowered his voice and took a step closer to you. Had he always been this tall? It felt like you had to raise your head a lot just to meet his eyes. Maybe you’d just never been this close to him before? “Don’t make me beg, dollface.” The smile he offered you wasn’t wide, necessarily, but the word ‘devastating’ came to mind. You looked away, and even took a cautious step to the side to try to re-establish some of your personal space. 

“Alright, Barnes, you win. Take it, okay?” You thrust the plate against his chest, only feeling a little bad about the possibility of making his shirt wet. He accepted it with another grin.

When you were finished with the night’s dishes, the two of you made your way back into the living room. You’d missed some tissues in your earlier attempt at cleaning, so you ducked to pick them up even as Bucky flopped onto the far end of the couch, unperturbed. The New Year’s livestream was still going strong—some singer you only vaguely recognized was dancing across the stage. 

You hesitated at the side of the couch for only a matter of moments, contemplating whether or not you should allow yourself the luxury of a blanket burrito. Bucky had already seen you at what was likely your worst—if not in the heat of battle, then at least...here, surrounded by your clutter and your used tissues. What did it matter if you also wrapped yourself in your comforter? Surely you weren’t trying to impress Bucky Barnes?

A thought occurred to you, and made you straighten your back. He hated the cold. That was basically a known fact at this point: everyone on the team knew better than to hassle him about his hoodies or his many many pairs of gloves. It was hard to blame him, really, with a backstory like his. But it could make the next part of the evening somewhat less awkward.

Maybe you’d been frozen there for too long, because he looked up at you, puzzled. Rather than trying to figure out how to explain yourself to him, or how to ask him what you might have wanted to ask him, you held up a finger and then turned to stride out of the room. He called your name, but you were on a mission.

You had a lot of blankets. It was probably just because you were hard to shop for when it came to specific gift ideas, but you were excited about every soft fleecy throw blanket that you unwrapped each Christmas. There was a whole shelf in your linen closet dedicated to the things. You sorted through it, now, looking for just the right blanket. Something large enough for him, that was the most important thing, and then something warm enough. Softness was a bonus, maybe—you could easily see Bucky Barnes being a secret sucker for something soft and warm. After far too long, your fingers made contact. It was one of your older blankets: dark red, velvety fleece on one side and faux sheepskin on the other. Big and thick and warm and delicious. To be honest, you were a little surprised that it was buried so deep: it normally spent most of every winter resting on the back of your couch. You held it close to your chest on your way back into the living room. Bucky was still looking after you: his eyes met yours almost immediately. You held the blanket aloft with a triumphant grin.

“Is that—” You watched as his eyes returned to the comforter that was still waiting for you. “I don’t need a blanket.”

“Everybody needs a blanket,” you said. If he’d been Wanda or Bruce, you might have set about tucking the blanket carefully around his legs, but...that didn’t feel quite right. You settled for shaking the blanket out before letting it float down to cover his lap. “I won’t make you keep using it if you don’t want to, but guests get blankets. Being cold sucks.”

He didn’t respond for a moment; rather than stand there staring at him, you went back to pick up your own blanket. You purposely didn’t look at him, though you did note, out of the corner of your eye, that he had yet to push the blanket off of his lap.

“You’re right,” he finally said in a low voice. “It does.”

You wrapped your own blanket around your body in one swift motion, and then tucked yourself into the corner of your couch. You hadn’t done much digging into his background. You knew the basics: the same things that most of the public knew, and also the same little bits and pieces as the rest of the people on the team. But you didn’t dig for any more than that. You’d always figured that, if he wanted you (or anyone) to know something, he’d share it. So it was hard to know exactly what memories were haunting him. You could guess.

The hosts onscreen were jabbering at each other: the expected sort of dragged-out interview that you weren’t certain anyone actually enjoyed. You pulled your comforter over the top of your head like a hood and then leaned back against the back of the couch. Maybe it wasn’t kind to let Bucky muse on his past for too long? You turned to look at him.

“Have you ever been? To Times Square, I mean, on New Year’s Eve?” 

He looked at you and, for a moment, his eyes seemed glazed over. But then he blinked, trying to rouse himself a bit, and gave you a grim smile.

“Steve and I went once. It was a long time ago. Before...everything. It wasn’t like it is now. We couldn’t stay until midnight because it was so cold, but it was alright. There were a lot of people. The spirit, the excitement. It was something special.” His smile had softened into something gentler—nostalgic now, instead of grim. “You’d never catch me there now, though.” 

“Same.” You didn’t lift your head from the couch, but you did let your eyes drift over to the screen. The camera was panning across the crowds—walls of meat, essentially, writhing and pulsing. You let yourself imagine what it’d be like there. You weren’t even particularly claustrophobic, but the idea made you uncomfortable anyway. “You know, I hear that some people who go to Times Square wear adult diapers so they don’t have to give up their spots to go find a bathroom.”

Bucky’s lips curled back, exposing his teeth in a grimace. You had to laugh at the expression. For a moment, he looked every bit like a grumpy old man, cursing the modern world around him. The sound of your laughter drew his eyes to your face, though, and his sharp alertness reminded you that, well...he was no grandpa. He studied you for several very long moments, and though some part of you wanted to look away, you didn’t. You’d never really just looked at him before. It was hard to imagine a situation in which he’d let you.

“How’re ya feeling?” He finally asked. 

You hesitated a moment, to take stock of how you were actually feeling, and weren’t especially surprised when you realized the answer. “A lot better than I did before you got here,” you said honestly. “Thank you for dinner. And for...the company. If you feel like you’re missing the party, though, I won’t be hurt if you want to head out.”

“Nah, this is better. I don’t like the parties, the alcohol doesn’t do anything for me, and I’m pretty sure that if I tried to hole up in my room, they’d never let me be.” He adjusted the blankets in his lap as though making a point. “Thank you for letting me hide out here.”

“Any time,” you mumbled. Oddly, you found that you meant it.

***

The two of you lapsed into another long, familiar silence. It was a little embarrassing to admit, but Bucky was still just a little bit transfixed by the bright, high-def screens that seemed to come standard on every modern television. Even though there wasn’t much of substance happening onscreen, the brilliance of the flashing lights was usually enough to keep him captivated. Tonight was no exception. Here and there he’d recognize some face—usually just from a billboard or an ad. Something about that was reassuring. He was a part of this world. He didn’t know the songs and most of the references were still lost on him, but he was getting there. 

He couldn’t tell exactly when it had happened, but you’d drifted off to sleep beside him. You were snoring a little. He tried not to smile. He had no doubt that you would have been embarrassed, if you were awake, but there was something comforting about the sound of it. Being part of a team was still odd, where before, he had spent so much time working alone. One of the strangest things that still made him pause was the little signs of trust that you and the others showed, seemingly without even thinking about it. The shoulder-slaps. The meaningful glances when in the field. Even Sam rarely looked up anymore when Bucky entered the room. And here you were, dozing next to the Winter Soldier like he hadn’t spilled an ocean of blood in his lifetime, like he couldn’t tear you apart even now.

You sighed and shifted, your eyelashes fluttering in your sleep. He jerked his gaze back towards the screen. He’d tear _himself_ apart before he let you catch him staring at you like that.

Your breathing worried him a bit, though. Were you having to struggle too hard for each breath? If he woke you up, would you have any kind of medication you could take? As far as he could tell, it looked like you were mostly treating your illness with tissues and tea. He wracked his shattered brain, trying to remember what Mrs. Rogers had done every winter. He remembered her boiling a lot of water, but he couldn’t drag his memory to the next step. Did she have some kind of tea? Did she do something with the water? There had been a time, a hundred lifetimes ago, when he’d considered becoming a doctor so he could do something for Steve other than bail him out of endless fights, but he couldn’t remember anything useful. He tightened his good hand in a fist but caught himself before he could pound the arm of the couch in frustration.

He didn’t want to wake you.

The television screen lit up just a little more brightly, and the crowd began to chant. No, to count down. This wasn’t so foreign to him. The celebrations today weren’t quite so different. It seemed like there were a lot more screens and billboards in Times Square, and the ball was a lot more high-tech today, but the people were the same. People were always the same. 

The familiar notes of Auld Lang Syne drifted through the room. Most of the time, Bucky Barnes did not allow himself to spend much time thinking about the past. There was a lot that he’d forgotten, and even more that he wished he could forget. But something about the tune made it easy to skip past all of that, into days even longer past. His sisters. His ma. Steve—the _little _Steve of his childhood, and the times they spent together. So many things he’d once known were gone. It hurt to remember a lot of them, but...he could do it anyway. He had to do it. The camera panned past an endless sea of people embracing, laughing, kissing each other, and he looked away.__

__You were still sound asleep. He remembered an old superstition that had frustrated him when he was growing up: whatever you spend the first few moments of the year doing is what you could expect to do for the rest of the year. You looked peaceful enough. Maybe that was a good thing. One side of your blanket-wrap had slipped away from your body, perhaps when you’d last shifted. He stood up from the couch and stretched his back. It wasn’t a big deal. He’d go to the kitchen, grab another soda, and then fix it when he came back. It was considerate, not creepy._ _

__So he did just that. When he got back into your living room, he set the can down on your coffee table and bent to fix your blanket. As he was tucking it more securely around you, to keep it from falling away again, you reached out and closed your fingers around his wrist. He startled, but kept himself from yanking away. Your breathing didn’t change. You were still asleep._ _

__Feeling especially brave, he moved in a little closer and pressed a soft kiss to your forehead. “Happy New Year, dollface,” he murmured against your skin, but then drew back before he could wake you. He grabbed one of your books off of the coffee table and collapsed back into his seat, stealing another glance at you._ _

__Maybe he wouldn’t mind spending more time like this in the coming year._ _


End file.
